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He leads the way to that cold white couch,
And the fresh blood comes with roseate hue,
Her form is raised, and her step is true,
And life beams bright in her eye.
THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.
"Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God?"— Luke xii. 6.
TRIBES of the air! whose favor'd race
May wander through the realms of space,
In form, in plumage, and in song,
Nor differ less your forms, your flight,
Far other scenes, remote, sublime,
Others there are, that make their home
Where Afric's burning realm expands,
The swan, where northern rivers glide
The condor, where the Andes tower,
Spreads his broad wing of pride and power,
And many a storm defies;
Bright in the orient realms of morn,
The Bird of Paradise.
Some, amidst India's groves of palin,
Others no varied song may pour,
Yet know, our Heavenly Father guides
Shall He not then thy guardian be?
Oh! safely mayst thou rest!
Trust in his love, and e'en should pain,
THE WOMAN ANOINTING THE FEET OF JESUS.
"And behold, a woman in the city, which was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee's house, brought an alabaster box of ointment, and stood at his feet behind him, weeping, and began to wash his feet with tears; and did wipe them with the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet, and anointed them with the ointment." -Luke vii. 37, 38.
THOU that with pallid cheek,
And eyes in sadness meek,
And faded locks that humbly swept the ground, From their long wanderings won,
Before the all-healing Son,
Didst bow thee to the earth, oh, lost and found!
When thou wouldst bathe his feet,
With odors richly sweet,
And many a shower of woman's burning tear,
Brought low the dust to wear
Did he reject thee then,
While the sharp scorn of men
On thy once bright and stately head was cast? No, from the Saviour's mien,
A solemn light serene,
Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last.
For thee, their smiles no more
Familiar faces wore,
Voices, once kind, had learn'd the stranger's tone, Who raised thee up and bound
Thy silent spirit's wound?
He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone!
But which, oh, erring child! From home so long beguiled, Which of thine offerings won those words of Heaven,
That o'er the bruised reed,
Condemn'd of earth to bleed,
Was it that perfume fraught
From the sweet woods of Araby the blest?
Of tears, which not in vain
To Him who scorn'd not tears, thy woes confess'd?
No, not by these restored
Unto thy Father's board,
'Thy peace, that kindled joy in Heaven,was made; But costlier in his eyes,
By that blest sacrifice,
Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before Him laid.